Evening Sun
by Begonias
Summary: I pour out the rest of my drink over the plot of land by Bob's tombstone, like I'm celebrating the life that once was instead of wishing that I'd never spoken to him in the first place, and it just seems so ironic. If this drink never existed he wouldn't be here in the first place, and I wouldn't be here, wishing the roles were reversed.


Short little two-shot. Please review. Title taken from a Strokes song.

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On a chilly November day of 1969 I find myself back in Tulsa and in the cemetery. That blasted cemetery. I never know why I keep going but there's just something that draws me there all the time. The part of me that still wants to hold onto the past. I guess. I've never been too good at guessing.

Dad had always told me that you should never guess things, should never assume, because it's vital to know all the facts of things and assuming things just "makes an ass out of you and me." Dad had always sat me on the couch and told me that and it happened more than once because he'd forget things when he was real drunk, but I'd just force a laugh at his joke every single time just to make him feel good.

He hadn't been a mean drunk. Life really would have been the pits then. It could have been so much worse for me, I guess. But that was before they stopped caring. Before I really starting drinking.

I had always been the one in my group who wasn't a mean drunk. I was the one who never really even liked it, which is why it's kind of ironic now. Bob...Bob, on the other hand, was different. His dad was a real brute and got even more wild when he was real messed up. He wanted Bob to be that way. He'd always told his son that drinking and holding your liquor was what made a boy a man. And Bob had taken that to heart.

He'd been able to get what he wanted all the time from his old man and his ma. They never wanted to say no to him. They encouraged his awful habits and depended solely on the belief that he was a model student, a leader, one bound for college. And maybe he would have been. But I guess we'd never be able to find out now. There I go with the guessing again. My dad would probably knock me up side the head if he heard me. Or most likely he'd laugh. Laugh so he wouldn't have to deal with emotion and talk about it like most people do. None of my family have ever wanted to talk to each other. I'm surprised they've lasted as long as they have.

_In Loving Memory of  
Bob Sheldon  
__Loving Son and Friend  
August 15, 1948 - September 16, 1966_

Three years. Jesus, he's been gone three years.

I take a swig of the beer bottle in my one hand and and I touch his gravestone. It's smooth under my fingertips and I finally throw the flowers I'd been holding in my other hand onto his grave, knowing they'll be frozen to the spot by the next time I visit him. It almost makes me laugh right then and there that I think of this process as "visiting Bob" when I'm actually just visiting a plot in the ground where his body and bones are laying inside a wooden casket. It would have made me laugh if I wasn't so close to crying.

Maybe if his old man said no. Every once in a while. No kid should get all the freedom in the world. If anything, it just taught Bob not to take no for an answer in any situation. Bob wouldn't have it when his girl Cherry Valance wanted to leave at the drive-in that night, wouldn't have it when those greasers left, because we just had to follow him. I admit that I wouldn't have it either. I wish I just left it alone. I wish I was the one who took the knife instead.

Our friendship was tumultuous at best.

I liked Bob. Loved him like a brother, even. He was one of the best friends a guy could have.

And then he started drinking. His goddamn folks didn't put a stop to it like any logical parent should have. I reckon they were worried that Bob would leave 'em behind. And he could have. He was eighteen.

I wish our lives were as ideal as the greasers think they are. I wish I could just be Mr. Super Soc with a cool car and leave it as that. Because if I was, I'd have parents who talked to me and stopped denying things. I wouldn't have a drinking problem and my best friend would still be alive. I wouldn't be living with the guilt of almost killing a little kid. It was malicious. It was malicious because I was just trying to please Bob. It never should have been like that. But there I was.

I take another gulp or two and relish in the burning the liquid gives me in the back of my throat. I'm not drunk yet but I wish I was. It's real funny; you'd think I'd never touch a drop of the stuff again seeing how it ruined Bob Sheldon's life, but what can I say. Grief does something to people. Drinking allows me to forget.

I go to a good community college just outside the city. That was probably the straw that broke the camel's back for my folks. They'd never said this to me before but they both wanted me to go to somewhere swank like Harvard or Stanford...but that wasn't for me anymore. They never said anything about it afterwards either but their silent disappointment was shown through their disowning me.

I'd wanted to run before. I remember telling that kid Ponyboy Curtis that once in my car. I'd wanted to punk out of that rumble but didn't want to be labelled as a chicken. We all cared so much for labels back then. It seems so long ago, but I still feel the same.

I pour out the rest of my drink over the plot of land by Bob's tombstone, like I'm celebrating the life that once was instead of wishing that I'd never spoken to him in the first place, and it just seems so ironic. So ironic that I can't pass up mentioning it. If this drink never existed he wouldn't be here in the first place, and I wouldn't be here, wishing the roles were reversed.

I leave without crying, though I feel close. I think about him a lot and what he once was but I don't visit his grave nearly as much as I should. Every time I do there's a different bouquet there, undoubtedly from his family, who probably come for him every other week or so. If I was here I wonder if my parents would do that for me. It's sad and touching at the same time and I have to blink repeatedly.

I hop into my car and sit for a second to let the alcohol in me settle so I can find where I want to go. And I drive a little bit until I'm on the other side of the cemetery.

Sometimes I go here after I visit Bob. Mostly when I'm boozed up. Mostly to say sorry, even though I guess it's too little, too late on my part. I'm walking up the line of graves looking for Johnny Cade when I see a tall, lanky figure already there.

Lo and behold, it's Ponyboy Curtis. I can tell before I really get a good look at him. He's a walking wraith, standing and staring in almost disbelief at the Cade kid's crude and bare headstone. Maybe after all these years he feels as lost as I do about this.

I accidentally step on a branch that snaps under the weight of me, and this causes him to look up at me and I look back at him, but I don't wave. His eyes are real bright green and intense, his hair is curlier and ungreased. He doesn't look rich enough to be a Soc but he just doesn't instantly strike me as a greaser anymore. Just a lost kid.

It feels like my feet are being forced to move over to him even though it seems like neither of us want to talk. But I go anyway. Maybe to say sorry. Even though it's too little, too late on my part.


End file.
